


War of the Roses

by mukur0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 17:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19675477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mukur0/pseuds/mukur0
Summary: After Sam emerges the sole survivor of the Cold Oak free for all, barriers are lifted and he finds himself in better touch with his abilities than he ever thought possible. In order to keep the Apocalypse from continuing on track he ascends to the throne of hell with absolutely zero input from Dean, and his advisor Gabriel (who is just as excited to find the Apocalypse stopped) warns him that Heaven has sunk its claws into Sam's brother. He may not be coming in peace.





	War of the Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Not fully beta'd. I'm so sorry. May or may not have more chapters.
> 
> \--Now edited with beta! Thank you sooooo much, gold_pen_leaps! I was sleepy when I first wrote this and it was a mess.

He might not have survived to see it, but Azazel’s plan worked. He won.

Kind of.

The night that Dean and Bobby walked through a demon-infested forest to get to Cold Oak, Azazel convinced a young soldier named Jake Talley to make an attempt on Sam’s life. Dean shot him in the head before he got within reach. Whether he did or not, Azazel would have been happy—if Sam died, Dean would go to hell for him and the Righteous Man would be had; if Sam didn’t die, he would in his despair unlock the rest of the powers that Azazel wanted him to have.

That he did.

Hell leaned on John Winchester, its present and only Righteous Man candidate, only to find him a much tougher nut to crack than anticipated by the powers that were above or below, all unbeknownst to the Winchesters two. Sam found himself moving proverbial mountains with his mind, driving the wedge of otherness deeper between the brothers, and snuck out in the night to better learn what he could do (and if he needed to die for it).

Lilith, well, Lilith didn’t really want to die. She approached the strengthening Boy-King-to-be and explained the entire plot to him, offering him John’s contract as a gesture of goodwill, or will as good as any demon could have. With that, John left Hell and ascended to Heaven, stealing Hell's chance at breaking any Righteous Man it currently had. And while Lilith didn’t want to die, Sam didn’t want Lucifer to walk the earth.

That was where Azazel’s plan began to unravel.

Without the impending apocalypse, Hell needed a ruler, and Lilith had been “de facto” for so long she wasn’t particularly interested in the actual throne. Sam would rather have died than become what Azazel had wanted, Sam Winchester, Boy King, but who better to make sure no meddling devils raised anyone else in the bloodline and resurrected the chance at the Apocalypse? Who to make sure they couldn’t find another Righteous Man and begin the countdown, _tick tock tick tock_?

And so it was. A Prince of Hell created Lucifer’s vessel so strong that he instead usurped Lucifer’s throne. The Morningstar would have been furious, if he had any idea what was happening outside.

“You can’t let him in,” Gabriel hissed. “Heaven has their hooks in him, Sam. He’s coming in here like John Wick.”

Sam fell into a chair, rubbing his forehead. His neck was beginning to feel sore, more psychosomatic pain at the weight of the great rack of stag antlers ascending from behind his temples. Ibuprofen wouldn’t help when he was only imagining it. “He’s my brother, Gabriel,” he moaned. “We’ve had this conversation a dozen times by now—”

“Because you never listen!” he insisted. “Sam,  _ listen _ to me. Dean is going to come in here guns blazing, and he is going to take no fucking prisoners. It’s going to be the Alamo if you let him in here. You’re literally the King of Hell.”

It wasn’t the first time he struggled with the advice given by his surprise advisor, if advisor he could be called. Some days, he was more of a nuisance, and others, he was practically a lapcat. He’d apparently been keeping an eye on the Apocalypse looming and, finding it thwarted and delighted, slid himself right into his spot to make sure that it stayed that way. He’d insisted on hiding his identity from anyone else, maintaining himself as Loki, as he had for hundreds of thousands of years already, but Sam hadn’t bought his schtick combined with an unnatural understanding of the featherbrains upstairs. In the end, Gabriel hadn’t had much of a choice but to privately give up the game. 

“Look,” he finally said, “I can’t turn him away. I can have us both meet in a neutral spot--I’m not going to have him escorted in like a prisoner--,” he added when Gabriel opened his mouth, “--but I’m not going to let him destroy the guards, either. You know, with everything I’ve learned, I can stop him if he tries something shady.”

How long had it been since he’d seen Dean? Under a month. Under a month, and so much had changed. The muttered threats about hunting him were becoming real, and Gabriel said that Dean had been contacted by Heaven, which most definitely still wanted the Apocalypse (and wasn’t that a loop to get his head around, that God and angels and everything he’d ever prayed to was real, and it absolutely wanted to kill him, just like everyone else).

The archangel perched on the edge of a table, arms crossed. Sam could almost get a glimpse of him now, was getting better at what Gabriel called opening his third eye. Apparently, humans were more than likely to die on seeing the true form of an angel, but, well, he wasn’t exactly human anymore, now was he? “Sam,” he sighed, “I’m not getting off on this. I don’t like to see you hurting like this.” His fingers fumbled at the wrapper on a candy bar. “But you haven’t seen the shit I’ve seen. You know your family, but I know  _ my _ family. And this? They’re not letting this go.”

It was the way he looked down and stared at his chocolate, ate it piece by piece, that made him pause in the tome he’d been paying attention to and look back up. “Hey. Gabriel. Look, I know--I know you’re trying to look after me, okay? And you’re probably thinking about taking off. I mean, you haven’t exactly told me much, but if you hid for as long as you did I’m sure it’s not exactly a walk in the park to be where you are, and I don’t blame you if you just walk right back out--”

That...wasn’t the expression he’d expected.

Gabriel grabbed him one handed by the shirt collar and yanked him out of his chair, sneering inches from his face. How he’d managed to avoid the prongs of his antlers, he wasn’t sure. “Did I  _ tell _ you that, bucko? Do you really think I hopped in here without thinking, just...oh, I don’t know, let’s risk the last two hundred thousand years of identity and safety, for a little walk in the park? How fucking stupid do you think I am, Winchester?”

Somehow, the longer the tirade went on, the closer they were. Sam could feel every word exhaled angrily onto his lips. He raised his hands in surrender, cringing. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant, Gabriel.”

He was released all at once. The awkward pose left him nearly falling, catching the edge of the table, grimacing at the book he had flipped onto the floor. Gingerly he lowered himself back into his seat. It was a mercy no one else was in the library. 

There was a bag of Skittles sitting in front of him. It was the first time the sweet tooth had shared. “Look, I’m here because I’m here,” Gabriel huffed. “If you bring Deano, I’ll have to vamoose for a little bit because who knows who or what’s looking through him. I’ll be nearby. Just...just don’t get your goddamn self killed, okay, your  _ highness?” _

Meeting Dean without Gabriel there was suddenly a lot more intimidating than doing it with him, but it was Dean. It was Dean. It was  _ Dean.  _ He had a mean bark, but he wasn’t going to bite  _ Sam, _ of all people, not the Dean that had rolled up his sleeves for him and ribbed him about girls in high school, and especially not the Dean who risked his life daily to have Sam’s back for the last couple years. 

Angels couldn’t get through that. Not even them.

“He’s been trying to get crossroads demons to bring him to me,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right, and going all Vlad Dracul when they can’t,” Gabriel added, smirking.

“That’s not--I’m going to tell them to bring him next time, but to go through the front. I’ll have time to clear out anyone in his path and you can get out of sight. Okay?”

He looked like he’d swallowed a Warhead, but Gabriel nodded. “Fine. If it goes bad, don’t sit there and stew over it, okay? Don’t you dare fucking die.”

After all, everything Gabriel was risking rode on Sam not dying. He wasn’t the only one who stood to lose here. He had to remember that. (But it was Dean. Dean wouldn’t hurt him. Dean couldn’t hurt him.)

“Okay. I’ll be okay.”

There were ten minutes between the message from an unlucky crossroads demon and the reply to bring Dean Winchester to Hell. In that time, every semi-powerful weapon or artifact was removed from the entrance and the path towards the throne room, every demon was cleared from the vicinity, and Sam did his best to look as natural as he could with twelve-point buck antlers ascending from his head. Hell kind of sucked--it was hot and dry and chapped like crazy, there was the faint sound of screams, and the only light was fire, but he was working on that. He was reforming all of it. There just wasn’t much that could be done in two weeks.

Gabriel had to have a way to listen in, but what that was Sam didn’t know. Could he get there if something happened? If Dean did try to attack him?

No. It was Dean, he reminded himself.

Every minute stretched into hours. It wasn’t a long way between the entrance to Hell and his official meeting room, for the sake of any demons coming underground to make obeisance or reports, so why was it taking eternity for him to arrive? 

His heel tapped on the stone floor. He leaned against the throne, then sat on the arm, knee tucked up against his chest. Jeans sucked in this kind of heat, but he was growing at least somewhat immune to the fires of Hell, which was kind of scary if he thought about it. Dean would not be a fan of the concept.

Which raised that whole issue. Dean might not try to kill him, no, but oh, he wouldn’t be happy, and an angry Dean was misery. What would he do? How would he lash out? Would he beat Sam’s face in again? Yell until he remembered what an aberration he really was? Run out and tell him he wouldn’t be family of a monster? 

There it was. Dean’s footsteps. There was only one set, which did not bode well for the crossroads demons who had escorted him, but it was definitely the heavy footfall of his favourite work boots. The steps stopped outside the heavy double doors and, with a loud huff, the doors slammed open. 


End file.
